


Falling Apart

by AK29



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 03:37:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3193832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AK29/pseuds/AK29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Backstory for my Inquisitor Ceallach Trevelyan, as well as a few present-time drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mess

A part of her - the part of her that was neither drugged to the Fade and back nor pretending that this wasn’t happening - realized that the stench in the room came from her.

Did they not clean her? Had they just… left her here? No, that couldn’t be right. She wasn’t dying. She was going to be okay! Or was that just something to calm her down? Was she going to die after all?

As she rose out of consciousness, so did her panic. As well as the pain. Like a snake, coiling around her body, increasing the pressure until it was unbearable. Then rose her pulse, the shaking started and she only realized she was crying when her lungs found enough air to force sobs through her throat.

Crying hurt. Breathing hurt. Being awake hurt. The room was silent but her head was a roaring thunderstorm, screaming and kicking, demanding that she do something. Feebly, she raised a hand to touch her skin, to figure out what was happening, if there was something she could do to make this stop. But the moment her fingers found her body, she touched blood, or something worse than blood and the next thing she knew, she was throwing up over the bedside, clinging to the sheets in an effort to keep her body upright.

By the time the door opened she was vomiting for a second time, no strength left to hold herself, quietly choking on her own bile. She saw her mother and father, perfumed handkerchiefs in front of their faces, looking at her in much the same way they looked at dog shit by the road side. She saw no worry in their eyes.

It would take years for them to send her to the chantry, but that night was the first time she knew what she was to them.

—-

The boy was thirteen, younger than she had been. Pretty lad too. Blue eyes and tousled blond curls. He reminded her of a young boy she’d been infatuated with in Ostwick.

He would die before the night was through.

If one were to ask her why she’d come, she’d have no answer.

“They’ve given me plenty of stuff but nothing works.”

“That happens sometimes. It’s difficult to find the right substance for everybody. We’re all different.”

The boy sighed, colour draining from his face by the minute. She considered for a moment, then grinned. “Say… you ever smoked?”

That got a laugh out of him. A pathetic wheezing one but a laugh nonetheless. “No way. Pa never let me.” “Well, Pa’s not here, is he? And the Herald of Andraste gives you permission, if anybody asks.” When she pulled out her pipe he got that wide eyed look that any young child got when their favourite uncle or aunt allowed them something their own parents had strictly forbidden. She didn’t tell him that the royal elfroot in the mix would help with the pain, merely joked and laughed with him, watching his body relax and face light up.

When she returned a week later - back from hunting Venatori in the West - the surgeon handed her the pipe and she took it without any further comment.


	2. Of brothers and pipes

She still smelled like shit and blood and piss and sweat.

Well, of course she didn’t. Not truly. She was out of that room. The scars were healing, despite weeping profusely. Everyone told her she smelled fine, although with less assurance or good will and more with annoyance.

She hadn’t been outside the estate’s walls in months. She was a burden now and no one made any attempt at hiding that fact. If she complained of pain, she didn’t get any more than the occasional cup of tea. There was no need for a healer anymore. And there was no need for her anymore either.  
The relationship to her parents had never been more than a strained one, but now was the first time Ceallach was absolutely sure they did not care about her anymore. Her only saving grace as the black sheep with her many failures and her many flaws had been her womb. The hope that one day she could further their precious bloodline. That one day, she would offer them children more suitable to the heritage than herself. 

Now that hope was gone. Any hope of getting any use of their failed child was gone. 

She felt like little more than furniture now. She did not speak until spoken to, spending most of her days locked in her room and reading or staring out the window. The thought of drowning herself in alcohol was not nearly as tempting as it could be - everytime she thought of taking a sip she remembered how panic rose in her throat as she lost control over her body, entering a nauseous haze that she could not stop, that had been supposed to stop the pain but never did.

"You could at least try to ride."

Mortimer’s tone was not gentle. It never had been. Still, he was the only one who seemed not entirely exasperated with her melancholy. Perhaps because he was not here often. Perhaps if they had more time to spend together, he’d tire of her and leave too. 

Ceallach scoffed and closed the book in her lap. “I tried. My arms were so shaky I catapulted myself over the saddle instead of into it.”

"The reason you are so weak is because you don’t do anything."

"And the reason I’m not doing anything is because everytime I take a step I feel like my spine will break in two and my guts spill out. You know, it kind of feels like someone had ripped open my stomach and tore half of it out… OH WAIT! That happened!”

She looked away before he could watch any tears fall. Not that it was necessary. Mortimer was even worse at holding eye contact than she was.

He nudged her and held out his hand. When Ceallach looked down, she saw a pipe in his hands. “You’ve tried this before?”

"… No."

It took five tries for her to properly inhale the smoke. She coughed and had tears streaming down her face and they both laughed like they hadn’t in years. When she finally got the hang of it it felt… nice. It did not make the pain go away but it distracted her from it. 

"I’m leaving for Antiva in three days. You can have it."

She didn’t say thank you and he didn’t need to hear it.

——

They were at the tavern when Cassandra finally asked her.

"It seems we have more in common than I thought. Josephine mentioned you had an older brother, is that true?"

Ceallach smiled, smoke spilling out of her nostrils.

"No. I have a pipe though. That’s almost as good, isn’t it?"


	3. Spoiled

"Oh for f— UGH!"

For the thousandth time, Ceallach struck the two rocks against each other and for the thousandth time nothing happened. She stared at the wood she had painstakingly and carefully collected, completely dry, placed upright so air could pass around them, big gaps filled with dry leaves and other things to serve as makeshift kindling.

And not a single spark would take hold.

"Need help?" 

She didn’t need to turn around to know what Dorian looked like right now. “Fine. Get that smug grin off your face and do your trick.”, she huffed, settling back against a rock with resignation and a thoroughly pissed look on her face. 

It only took a literal snap of his fingers to make the fire burn brightly. He settled next to her as well, still smiling though. “You know there are people far more incompetent than you, with much more impressive titles. Complete morons with their buttcheeks on thrones. You’re doing positively amazing by comparison.”

Ceallach laughed. “Oh, that’s a relief. I’m only half as much of an imbecile as I thought? I’m flattered.” She sighed. “I suppose there must be ladies more spoiled and useless than myself. Somewhere… ” Dorian shrugged. “We can try Val Royeaux if it’ll make you feel better.” 

"Hardly. At least the ladies in Val Royeaux know how to properly poison the men who stepped on their feet." 

"I suppose we can’t all specialize in being religious icons."

Ceallach waved her hand, visibly annoyed. “Oh, shush. If I’m the Herald of Andraste we are truly and utterly buggered. The woman’s never spoken to me before and she hasn’t started now.”

Dorian rested his arm on his propped up leg and regarded her with a curious look. “You really don’t believe anything guided you here? That, what? You being the only survivor with a big shiny green thingy on your hand is a coincidence?”

Looking at him, she didn’t quite know what to tell him. She knew he believed. In her. In what they were doing. 

"I…" She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I think it matters shit what I believe. Suppose the Maker sent me here, if he did, he left me to my own devices and it hardly matters from now on. Or he’s still guiding me in ways I can’t see, in which case we have to worry about nothing. 

Or he doesn’t exist. In that case, we still go on as before. We solve our own problems. I’d rather not let someone else take credit for it.

We have to learn to do this on our own, whether He’s out there or not.” The very last sentence she added quietly. “I had to learn to do things on my own.”

"Thing like lighting a campfire, I take it?"

"Oh shut your face.”


End file.
